A loaf of bread. Is that too much to ask?

6


Crankyville is a smallish hamlet divided in two by a busy road for those who work in the north and live in the south. On my side of the busy road is a ramshackle shopping strip with a few professional suites, a mixed business, café and cake place, an empty shell where the greengrocer used to be, an absurd number of real estate agencies and a bakery that’s expanded to fill two shopfronts.

This is a good bakery with a pastry chef who makes a custard tart worth selling an organ for. Sorry, was a good bakery. I got the shits up when a bloody huge-arsed, chrome-accessorised, steam-frothing monstrosity of a coffee machine was installed. It takes fucking half the day now to buy a loaf of bread because as soon as one person wants a chai latte with skinny milk and just a bit of chocolate, no not that much can you make it again, the queue for the daily bread is 14 miles long.

I cracked a sad and meandered into the mixed business to buy the newspaper and a loaf of bread because the shop is stocked with the bakery’s loaves. Bugger me dead, the new owners have plonked a shiny red enamel and metal coffee machine next to the cash register. It’s a fucking milk bar, sell milk and papers and a pre-made sandwich if you must, but can I go somewhere without having to wait for the sole employee to labour over a tray of flat whites for the local tradies on their way to a job?

Today a new bakery has opened amid gossip about how the owners will compete with the place across the road. I got a tad excited when I saw a Vietnamese couple tizzing the place up because my greedy little brain conjured thoughts of racks and racks of tantalising sweet buns and French-inspired pastries. I went in this morning and, nup, the usual white and wholemeal bread and a fucking brown and chrome coffee machine sitting next to the cash register. I gave up waiting for the customer in front of me to give a blow-by-blow monologue on how she wanted her macchifuckingato made. The owners will just have to get used to the locals screaming and running away in frustration.

Buy a coffee machine, employ more staff. I’m hungry.

Crank-o-meter: crusty

29 October 2008

I like books. Books are nice. Do you like books?

4

 

I’m a bit brain-foggy from a mysterious sleep drought, so until my mojo comes back, here’s librarytart, a new blog I’ve been working on. I have a mission to read the books from A to Z in my local library [1].

It could be fun as I’ll use the magic 8 ball to decide when to change to the next letter [2].

[1] Not all the books, as I have realised there are too many and I’m tiring of A already.
[2] Most of my life decisions are made with the toss of a coin, but a magic 8 ball is good for handling direct questions, if a bit wishy-washy sometimes.

 Crank-o-meter: writing the little book of not sleeping

23 October 2008

Oh, no, it’s that time of year

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The garish ropes of tinsel and plastic Santa-ghoul decorations … I can almost cope with. The green and red-dyed candy cane rawhide chews in the dog food aisle for our canine buddies … I can’t really cope with, but I do say a little prayer that no one buys that shit for their animals. The e-mail advertising the work Christmas party … hit delete and hope like hell the sender didn’t read receipt the recipients.

I like most of my co-workers and work productively with all of them, but come late October, the never-fucking-happy, could-do-it-better-but-that-would-mean-an-end-to-the-bitchin’ people come out of their cubicles and don’t shut up about how crappy it’s all going to be and don’t know why anyone bothers.

I know why: one year we went on a boat ride and one year in the future, any year, and I will wait … we’ll go on another boat ride and I’m going to push every single nay-sayer into the deep blue sea where the sharks take their lunch. Plonk, kerplunk, plonk. Sometimes I channel that fantasy and it keeps me going during business hours.

The optimistic but doomed ‘volunteer’ (“You’re good at organising things, you’ll be great,” was her manager’s delegation) has no chance of survival, regardless of the inclusive e-mail she sent asking for suggestions, and the top seven or so she sent us to vote on. The expensive options and evening events died in the arse and we agreed on a local winery that has a most reasonable fixed price menu with a variety of good wines by the glass.

Then it started (our bitchin’ brigade hides in the bushes until a decision is announced and then launches like a fully-loaded M60 machine gun with endless links of ammo stuffed in).

“Yewwwww, I don’t drink wine.”

“Errkkkk, I had lunch there once 15,000 years ago and I didn’t like the entrée.”

“Awww, It’s not in the direction of my house if I want to piss off early from you lot and go straight home.”

“Arghhh, Why aren’t we going on the boat ride?” (because you whinged when I organised that one, fucker)

“Nooo, I want to go to a pub and have a bowl of chips.”

It’s like a stadium rendition of Waldorf and Statler from The Muppets, but not funny and devoid of all wit. I can’t turn the channel over and the glares I receive are bloody annoying when I tell them not to go and enjoy the sandwiches at their desks.

Crank-o-meter: I’m going!

21 October 2008

Does anyone like wind power?

4

 

The hounds failed in their duty to give early warning of a door-to-door salesperson yesterday and I ended up having to answer the door. They would have been sent to bed without dinner if they didn’t raid the bin anyway.

For once, the visitor was sent by the electricity company I use (I am still an old-fashioned supporter of government-owned utilities, if for the only reason that it reduces the number of salespeople from myriad competitors with increasingly complex deals and promises … but only if they can see my last bill … and only if I sign on the line today … and yes, I can cancel later and return to my old provider if I’m not happy – who the fuck’s got time for that? It took a year to cancel an internet service I never took up because my three cancellation calls weren’t logged on the system).

The rep outside my screen door wanted to reward me for being a customer. The company loses customers after being waved gifts from competitors so this mob was getting in early and rewarding me for being loyal. Me! He flashed the laminated card with photos of choices including a shower head and some other shit I already have but I still prepared to make my selection. I was so excited I even got my bill for him without being asked. See, I am a customer! I’ll even open this locked screen door to grab the freebie out of your hand and not break your wrist when I close it!

But, like all gift horses, there was a catch. I had to change my electricity plan to 20% ‘green’ energy (right there and then, of course), but the upside was that it wouldn’t cost me any more than 100% coal-powered energy.

I scratched my head and showed him the section of the bill confirming I subscribe to 100% wind power.

He said I was able to unsubscribe from 100% green and switch to the 20% green plan and I’d receive my gift. I, in fact, didn’t have to be on 100% green power because did I realise I was paying more for it?

I replied that I had chosen wind power and pay more because I feel it’s one of my civic responsibilities and I’m fortunate enough to afford it (and, by crikey, it makes me use less energy). Do I still get my piece of free crap?

“No. Only if you switch to our 20% green. Would you like to sign up?”

I said no, we shook our heads at each other in disbelief and walked away from the aborted transaction.

In the meantime, landholders outside Ballarat are divided on a company’s plan to build Victoria’s largest wind farm with 282 turbines. People offered and accepting financial deals to have turbines on their land are in favour, while almost everyone else is in the negative, citing the usual reasons of ugliness and saving the birds.

There are few things uglier than open cut mines and coal-powered electricity plants, and most people, when pressed about which birds on what migratory paths are at risk, can’t answer because they are parrots repeating neighbours’ angry vitriol as unassailable fact. The State Government is possibly being moronic in this instance by not insisting on the usual environmental impact studies, so no one knows if any or what birds might be munched up by 846 spinning blades. Ignorance all round.

Vote 1: wind if it’s studied, sensible and sustainable.

Crank-o-meter: another reason the planet is fucked

19 October 2008

Did you know Layne Beachley is a woman?

3


The people at Fairfax respect Layne Beachley almost as much as I do, and have given her blog space to write about motivation, health and success. Here’s the intro blurb:

Regarded as history’s best female surfer, Layne Beachley is a seven-time world champion. But her drive doesn’t stop at the water’s edge. She’s had success with her Beachley Athletic and in 2006, Layne staged the richest event in women’s surfing. Recently retired, Layne has turned her focus to investing in Australia’s future by inspiring young women to realise their full potential with her Aim For The Stars Foundation.

Being the minority gender in any vocation and regarded with (even unintentional) condescension rankles. Do not get me started on the media’s novelty value treatment of stories about male prostitutes, female engineers, male nurses, female politicians and male models. We in reader-land can determine people’s genders from names and pronouns because most of us aren’t brain-dead stupid.

I tried to surf and gurgled a lot of saltwater with the starfish on the ocean floor. She’s one of history’s best surfers, comma, and continue.

PS: the moderators let my comment through! (spewing I used ‘achieve’ twice in the same sentence)

Crank-o-meter: bitttttttttter and cranky

17 October 2008

Truth hurts more than fiction

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I’ve been reading The Face of Another by Kobo Abe from the contents of the A shelves at the local library. Abe wrote the book in the 1960s chronicling a man’s mission to create a mask after his face was grossly disfigured and he was ostracised by his wife and society.

His theme linked with a positive news story I had squirreled away about Pakastani women starting a beauty salon for women disfigured by kerosene and acid burns.

I initially thought, good, his depressing fiction mirrors a sad truth, however, the news story is reason to maintain faith in happy endings.

I kept clicking through links and learned about Depilex Smileagain, a French organisation that acts as “a support and assistance group for women who are victims of domestic violence with special emphasis in the area of deliberate acid and kerosene burning.”

I shivered when I reminded myself that organisations are started because there’s a need. This is why our world needs a Depilex Smileagain:

  • The Age quotes the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan that at least 33 women are burned in acid attacks and 45 are set on fire a year. Many cases are unreported out of fear.
  • The main motives for disfiguring women include sexual non-cooperation, suspected infidelity, jealousy and the husband wanting to re-marry.
  • The areas most targeted are the face and genitals.
  • Acid and kerosene are easily available and used because the victim usually survives to continue life with pain, inconcealable disfigurement, dozens of reconstructive surgeries and ostracism from society. (Abe’s book explored societal rejection and loss of identity in chilling detail after the disfigurement of his protagonist’s face.)
  • The ‘before and after’ photo gallery of some of the women undertaking rounds of reconstructive surgery is here (warning: it is graphic).

Please have a look around the links.

Crank-o-meter: sad

11 October 2008

“Every safe flight is one step closer to an accident”

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Your resident safety girl would like the present the following information before you next travel by air. These snippets have been gathered from people involved in flying planes when they’re in the air, and other people involved in aviation safety when sifting through the pieces after incidents.

Be fussy about seating: Near the aisle and close to an emergency exit is good. You’ve seen footage of masses of people charging to get into the narrow doors of Myer at the stocktake sale opening for a discounted fridge — picture doing the opposite in a darkened plane cabin with smoke and screaming passengers in a fight to escape during an emergency.

Wear sensible clothes and shoes: When selecting a flight outfit, ask “Can I potentially climb over obstructions and slide down a raft in this?”

Do some maths: Count the number of rows to the exits in front and behind your seat and discuss with your travelling partners. Planes don’t carry enough crew to control and herd several hundred passengers in a panic, and the likelihood of you being separated from your loved ones in a scuffle is high.

Look around: When scanning seats, look for potential barriers to reaching safety such as infirm people and passengers who appear drunk or under the influence of anti-panic medication (even I have changed my ways and accept the risk of panic attack, just in case …). It seems harsh to think about, but an incident will not wait for slow, confused or hysterical people to get their acts together.

Lastly and possibly most importantly, wear a seat belt when seated: On Tuesday’s QANTAS flight from Singapore, the plane shot up 300 feet and pitched dramatically without warning, with about 20 of the 40 people injured incurring serious spinal injuries, broken bones or lacerations. A volunteer at Learmonth airstrip who attended the incident said, “On the ceiling where people had hit their heads there were chunks of hair still there.” A human body bouncing between positive and negative G-forces is no match for the floor, ceiling or fittings. Other passengers might think you’re a nutbar, but consider telling them to keep their seatbelts on as well — the person next to you might be landing on your head during the next bout of turbulence.

Being prepared for the worst feels silly, but the minute you’ve gained from being able to fast-forward the what the hell is going on? shock into a plan of action might be the minute that saves you. 

Crank-o-meter: and check the pressure of your car’s tyres when you buy petrol, too *cranky crankity crank*

9 October 2008

Wake me when it’s over

2


I don’t understand my body clock when daylight saving clicks around for another year. I’ve been on 14-hour plane trips crossing the International Date Line while off my snoz on wine and anti-panic medication, yet I’m able leap off the flying tin can to be first to wait at baggage collection.

Wind the clock forward a single hour and I barely function. I was rip-roaring to go about 2am, but at 2pm I was answering the work phone with “Good morning.” Now I answer the phone with an all-occasions, “Bugger off.”

At midnight I couldn’t sleep so I picked up a piece of discarded clothing and started dusting my bike, which was resting neglected on its indoor trainer. However, I couldn’t be bothered crawling to the door to turn on a light and see if I was removing dust with clean pants or a pair of worn jocks. I’m not sure if this behaviour is due to daylight saving confusion or a periodic bout of general lunacy but, bah, daylight saving gets blamed for everything so add cleaning with dirty knickers to the list.

I had a late lunch yesterday with a friend who fared even worse. He got up at sparrow fart’o'clock on Sunday, turned all his household’s clocks back an hour and returned to bed to enjoy his bonus sleep-in. He woke again and saw his mobile phone had updated automatically to the ‘wrong’ time, and he manually overrode it to his time of 5am. Later he had to go to work and was the last to arrive — not only was he two hours behind but had the extra task of skulking around the house resetting all the clocks before his family woke.

Crank-o-meter: beddie byes

7 October 2008

Beautiful books

5


I was at the local library yesterday and suffered the ocular equivalent of ice cream brain freeze from the countless books on the shelves. Even if I live to 120 and maintain my eyesight, I’ll never read a piffling fraction of the world’s good or great books. Why can’t I be an insect with prism eyes so I can try to devour lots at once?

I couldn’t leave full-brained and empty handed because I loathe making trips to this suburb, so I performed an old stunt a girlfriend taught me: go to fiction and start at A. In a stint working in Sydney, I lived near a wonderful library and a shithouse train line, and they paired to give me a couple of hours’ reading time most days. I started at A (avoiding romance and some science fiction because I’m not as open minded as I think I am) and got to H between stints in non-fiction and JK Rowling.

Today I swept the top left shelf of A and have already finished a balltearingly good book I’d have never encountered otherwise. I’ll write some notes about it when I get past the guilts for ignoring the need for clean clothes, linen on the bed and having more than eggs and eye drops in the fridge.

If anyone wants to post about favourite books or authors, leave a comment or drop a note to nicoleATpink-inkDOTcomDOTau and I’ll post. This will be an ongoing theme and by Christmas I’d love a list of old favourites, undiscovered new treasures, books you want to share with the world, or anything that makes you feel something inside. (At the moment I’m in the mood for books that’ll rip my heart out and cause great rivers of tears and snot to flow down my face.)

Crank-o-meter: loopy in a reasonable kind of way

5 October 2008

Some things I will never fathom

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I made the mistake of reading a news story today about someone who broke into an outback zoo, raided animals’ enclosures and fed the following to a crocodile: a turtle, four blue tongue lizards, two bearded dragons, two thorny devil lizards and a six-foot-long goanna.

This, apparently, wasn’t enough and he was captured on video footage bludgeoning to death another lizard and two more thorny devils.

The accused is seven years old. Not only is he unable to be tried as an adult, but under Northern Territory’s laws he cannot be held accountable. The boy’s parents may be sued as the next in line.

I can’t abide cruelty to animals and I’m the first to admit losing rational thought when I read the story. Kick the little fucker to kingdom come, doesn’t everyone know mistreatment of animals is classic early behaviour in adult serial killers, what on god’s earth have his parents been doing instead of raising the kid, why the fuck doesn’t our legal system allow for trying children who commit adult crimes if behaviour can be proven as intentional?

I know nothing about human behaviour and motivation. And the child won’t speak to police so at this point we’re none the wiser.

Crank-o-meter: shaking head

3 October 2008
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